


follow the recipe

by Noip13



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Death, Cooking, Excessive Drinking, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Inheritance, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noip13/pseuds/Noip13
Summary: Rats live for two years, maybe three if they’re lucky. And Remy has always been very, very lucky.Featuring: Not quite enough good food, too much wine, moving on, holding on, messes, four perspectives on loss, the first inter-species wake in rat or human history, friendship, and the Last Will and Testament of Remy.





	follow the recipe

From his place in the line to exit Linguini and Colette's apartment, Anton Ego dispassionately watched rats trickle outside. It was late, but it was also hundreds of rats emerging out the door of a lovely building in one of the finer parts of Paris, so they were still exercising the utmost caution. One by one, the rats scurried down the stoop and across the sidewalk, easily leaping into a nearby grate. Humans paced themselves between the rats, lingering at the door to chat, each holding it open for just a little too long on their way out, each careful to not step on the rats.

It was tedious. But it was necessary.

“Thank you.”

Anton jumped. A hair’s breadth away stood Colette, eyes burning red and dark all around, hair scraped into a painfully neat bun.

“For--for coming,” she elaborated. She rubbed at her eyes.

Anton reached and found no words. They always seemed to flee from him at times like this. “Of course. Thank you for…”

“Yes,” she replied.

Anton stepped out of line to stand by her side. As people inched past, they gave her and Linguini their wishes. Rats merely waved with their tails up at Ego and Colette, a simple but universal salute. Human-rat communication might exist these days, somehow, but it required entirely more energy than anyone was willing to devote to it right now. 

Gradually, the room emptied, even as Anton's desires welled and warred beneath his tongue. He bit back every one, but as the quiet dragged, he found it harder and harder to keep his silence. Finally, he asked, “Are you quite sure that you wouldn’t want help cleaning up? We left the kitchen in quite a state, and I’d be--” 

Colette shook her head. The few strands of hair that had escaped from her bun feathered back and forth.

“I’d be happy--”

“We’ll be fine,” she said, with a tone that brokered no argument.

There was a distant sort of hole in Anton’s chest. He’d always had a habit of caring too much or too little, but today, years after he’d first found wonder, serenity, absolute clarity in the nature of the genius behind the ratatouille, he was bitter. He hated. He regretted.

Of course it had to be a rat. But why, oh why, did it have to be a rat? His head was already stuffed to overflowing, he’d long ago decided he’d be writing as soon as he got home just to make sense of his own mind. There was something to weave here, he thought randomly, the death of a mother’s dish twice over, something entirely wonderful, mortality, a tragedy with every element for a farce, relativity, mistakes upon mistakes upon mistakes--

Anton swallowed and tasted a hint of the last piece of Remy’s cooking that he would ever eat.

Perhaps his face betrayed him, because Colette’s expression softened. She reached out to pat his arm. After a moment, she said, “Get some sleep, Anton. There’ll still be cleaning to finish tomorrow. As you said, the kitchen’s a mess.”

His head was still an aching jumble, but despite himself, Anton felt the corner of his mouth tug up. “You said it, not me.”

The last of the guests finally left, waving their farewells, tails straight as flagpoles.  

"Here," whispered Colette. 

Anton looked down to find a small paper bag brandished at him. Examining it, it took only a moment to confirm what it contained.

Delicately, Anton held the bag to his chest. “I had thought we had eaten the last of this tonight,” he finally said.

Colette held a finger to her lips, but let her smile slip pass. It brought her life to her red, tired eyes. “Don’t let it get around, but we had a bit left over. Linguini and I thought you’d appreciate it. It’s not exactly one of your favorites, but…” she shrugged.

Anton tried to clear his throat, and failed. Thickly, he said, “Don’t--thank you. Very much. I will savor it.”

Colette nodded.

And for the life of him, Anton never would be able to decide how it happened--he’d had quite a bit of wine that night, after all--but suddenly, the two of them had embraced. 

Colette was a small woman, and he a tall man. Looking down, he saw the stark part in her hair, as well as yet more feathers escaping from her tight bun. He wrapped his arms around her solid, warm back, and felt her hands against his back, and it--

It was--

It was very...grounding. Colette, in his experience, consistently exuded an aura of sheer competency that both intimidated and reassured. Something about her, about this simple contact, centered him. He breathed deeply, in, out, and felt her match the movement.

Laughter randomly rang down the hall, startling both of them. No doubt, it originated from the kitchen, and from Linguini...likely still working on that bottle of wine. Unfortunate, but understandable.

Somewhat awkwardly, they separated. Anton tucked the last container of Remy's special soup under his arm and leaned down to kiss Colette twice on each cheek.

“Good night, Colette,” he said. He checked beneath his feet for rats, and opened the front door. Behind him, Colette stood alone, hand raised in farewell. Her face was unreadable. “And thank you."

Anton slipped out into the cool night, paper bag in hand. He breathed in once more and, finally, he set his mind upon the tangle of food and love and death that swirled between his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up twelve years late to the party with a death fic*
> 
> (Please believe me, I swear to God that I'm going somewhere with this. I did not kill that wonderful rat for no reason.)
> 
> So, I came up with the idea for this at least four years ago, probably longer. I thought I'd finally post it, but in the process of giving it a once-over, it has...somehow doubled in length and quadrupled in complexity.
> 
> Whoops.


End file.
